


A Songbird in Angband

by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya)



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Maglor as Luthien, Maglor in Angband, Mairon ain't evil yet, Melkor is damn evil by now though, Mutual Non-Con, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26816710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/AdmirableMonster
Summary: Maglor manages to get himself captured instead of Maedhros and taken to Angband.  Morgoth is displeased that Mairon didn't even capture the enemy commander, and he takes it out on both of them.
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 16
Kudos: 71





	A Songbird in Angband

**Author's Note:**

> "implied/referenced incest" ie there are a couple of places where mags indicates he might have a bit of a thing for mae but it's not really the focus
> 
> yeah i don't know i think we can blame moiety for this one
> 
> this was originally going to be a mairon/maedhros piece and then she & I started talking and now it's mai/mags instead...maglairon? I don't know
> 
> also note that because this is so early (the first real conflict since Melkor returned with the silmarils) based on my hcs about what caused him to go evil, Mairon is still in Admirable Foe Lieutenant of Angband mode and hasn't really been corrupted yet

The Orcs had stripped Maglor’s clothing from him, which he had half-expected—why would a thrall need clothing? But they had brought him to a little richly-furnished room with a soft silk bed on it, and Maglor’s breath had gone out of him because he knew exactly what was going to happen. He hadn’t bothered fighting as they pushed him down onto the bed and bound his arms and legs spread-eagled across it; there were more useful things he could be doing. Preparing himself mentally.

First: he’d kept Maedhros from this, which was a blessing, maybe more of a blessing than keeping the Elven High King safe. Maglor could be selfish right now. He was a little beyond anything else. Second: there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to get out of this by fading. Angband wouldn’t let him. If he’d thought there was any chance of escaping his captivity to Mandos, he would have taken it, but he was just about positive it wasn’t going to be an option. So, third: focus on relaxing, minimize physical injury. It might not matter in the long term, but in the short term it was better to stay as unharmed as possible. And last: the easiest thing would be to retreat into his head, but he shouldn’t yet, because he was fresh and uninjured and needed to be aware enough to exploit a weakness if he saw it.

Exhaling softly, Maglor lay back and waited to be raped.

~

In the end, he didn’t wait for so very long, to his relief. The tension seeping through his bound limbs was beginning to make them stiffen, and half of him had expected to be kept in suspense for hours, but it didn’t happen. He doubted it had been more than forty-five minutes since he had been left like this, and he was only a little cold and uncomfortable, when the door opened.

Maglor let himself give in to the instinct to start up, to struggle weakly, trying to get his first sight of his captors. He felt them before he saw them, like the heat of an oven door opening followed by a blast of icy cold wind. Not Orcs, then; a second look told him—not Balrogs, either.

The taller of the two figures was Morgoth—Maglor’s heart twisted with longing as he saw the three bright gems adorning the tall iron crown. For one moment there was nothing but their brilliance and the whisper of the Oath reverberating like thunder in his mind. Then Maglor forced his eyes away sideways onto the smaller figure, who had stopped just inside the doorway, staring at him as if he were—surprised, almost.

This, Maglor realized quickly, must be Gorthaur, Morgoth’s lieutenant. Waves of flame-red hair cascading down his shoulders made Maglor glad again, in a fierce, aching, angry kind of way. Nelyo was safe. Nelyo was safe with Finno, and it didn’t matter what happened to Maglor. Maedhros was not that terrible at planning cavalry charges, after all.

With both of them here, he expected Gorthaur to be the one who would actually carry out the deed, but Gorthaur turned to Morgoth and said something in a low, angry voice, quiet enough that even Maglor’s hearing wasn’t good enough to pick it up. Morgoth grasped Gorthaur’s arm at the wrist, pulling him close, and Maglor looked away and tried to steady his breathing as they kissed. Morgoth’s voice spoke too, also too quiet for him to make out the words, but he could hear the icy chill on them, cold as midwinter, dead as the frozen ground beneath five feet of snow.

Gorthaur looked from Morgoth to Maglor and back before making his way regally across the room. He looked down at Maglor with blazing gold-red eyes. Burns, Maglor thought distractedly. He hadn’t accounted for the possibility of internal burns. He allowed himself the shudder, because his own defiance would only feed his ego. If Gorthaur and Morgoth underestimated him, it might just save his life.

“Stay still,” Gorthaur snarled, the timbre of his voice strangely unsteady. “Unless you want this to hurt even more than it has to.” His hands hovered at the front of his tunic; finally, with another snarl, he unclasped the ornate belt at the front and yanked the tunic up and over his head. It was—not as graceful as Maglor had expected. It was not as… _controlled_ as Maglor had expected. Frankly, he hadn’t expected Gorthaur to disrobe at all.

Underneath, he wore a thin vest embroidered with a delicate pattern of beadwork around the top. Standing there in that and the velvet trousers he was now fumbling with, he looked oddly ethereal, his slim shoulders working. Maglor frowned. There was something here he was missing, and that was terrifying. Why had Gorthaur made himself look _less_ intimidating? What game was he playing? There seemed little point in attempting a seduction under the circumstances, given that Morgoth was watching with a faint smile on his face and Maglor was tied down and very helpless.

Maglor weighed ‘victim’ against ‘defiant son of Fëanor’ and decided it was probably slightly too early to go with victim. He set his chin. “No matter what you do to me, I won’t tell you anything,” he said, letting his voice break a little at the end with the fear that he absolutely did feel. This was going to hurt. This was going to be awful. But in the end the defiance probably wouldn’t make anything so much worse, and it _was_ expected.

“No,” Gorthaur said, almost bleakly. “I don’t expect that you will.”

So they were going straight to breaking him. Maglor closed his eyes. _Nelyo,_ he thought distantly. _I’m frightened_. It was all very well to plan for his own rape, to know it was going to happen, to try his best to be prepared—but now it was here, and he was all alone. And it was going to _hurt_ , and in the end—in the end, he didn’t even know what of him would be left.

Those red-gold eyes stared down at him as Gorthaur finished fumbling his trousers open. They flickered from Maglor sideways and back towards Morgoth. Then he clambered onto the bed, kneeling between Maglor’s spread legs. He wasn’t hard, and Maglor huffed out a noise that he managed to turn from a sob into a laugh. Gorthaur glared at him, and Maglor tensed-then-relaxed in preparation for the inevitable blow.

It didn’t come. The Maia just stayed above him, red hair spilling down over his shoulders, as he stared down at Maglor. “Well, Lieutenant?” said Morgoth’s cold voice, urging, pushing, _commanding_ —

And—oh. _Oh_. Maglor’s heart seized up as Gorthaur pressed him down into the bed with a sudden, biting kiss. It wasn’t possible, was it? But Gorthaur was _shaking_ —Maglor could feel him, with them pressed this close together, with Gorthaur’s lips on his, Gorthaur’s chest pressed down against his. It had to be a trick, Maglor thought wildly, because the alternative—that Gorthaur was about as happy about the situation as he was—was _ridiculous_. Impossible.

It didn’t matter. He’d already decided to play along with whatever scenario he was put in, and whether this was real or fake made no difference right now. He didn’t have time to worry about it. _Play the role you’re given._

He angled his hips, trying to urge Gorthaur to rut against his thigh. He didn’t know if the Maia understood him, but he did shift his weight, grinding against Maglor’s hip and panting softly. He was hardening slowly, and if Maglor shut his eyes and ignored the heightened temperature of his partner’s skin, he could almost be back in Valinor, willingly tied down and happily exploring possibilities with someone new. If he opened his eyes just a little, squinted—if he _just_ looked at the red hair spilling over those slim, pale shoulders—

The thought and the friction of the body against him brought a rush of blood between his legs as well. Maglor bit his lip. If he looked like he was enjoying it, would that satisfy Morgoth’s desire to shame him? Or would it just make Gorthaur try harder to hurt him? He didn’t know. He didn’t know.

Gorthaur went up on his knees. He was breathing hard, flushed red, his eyes glassy and dull. Although he was hard now, he was trembling even more noticeably. Maglor’s chest was tight. This was when it got—worse. Red-gold eyes stared at him; Gorthaur fumbled with his cock, clearly struggling to line himself up.

Victim time, because he didn’t think he could stop himself anyway. “Don’t,” Maglor croaked, shocking even himself with how badly his shaking voice cracked. “Please. I—”

“Quiet.” Gorthaur pressed a hand across Maglor’s mouth. In a lower voice, “Just—just.”

“If he won’t obey thee, then _make him,_ ” Morgoth’s voice said, quiet, cold, and easily heard. Maglor went still at the sound of it, all his carefully thought out plans and emotional responses going right out of his head. Gorthaur shifted again; his mouth twisted and then he shoved three fingers roughly into Maglor’s mouth. 

“Don’t bite,” he said, his voice commanding but still not quite what Maglor had expected.

“Dost thou think this is a dalliance in Valinor?” Morgoth demanded.

“I think, my lord, that if you want me to get inside him _at all_ you’ll have to let me open him up,” Gorthaur retorted, and Maglor’s eyes fluttered in terrified surprise. He was almost entirely positive, now, that his wild thought had been right on the mark, but he didn’t know what to _do_ with that. It certainly didn’t help him at all.

“The blood will ease thy way,” Morgoth told him quietly, and Maglor’s breathing _tore_ in his own ears.

“You are misinformed, my lord,” Gorthaur responded, equally quietly. “Would you have me give you a treatise on the viscosity of the two fluids, or will you let me concentrate on the task that you have set me?” When Morgoth said nothing further, Gorthaur turned back to Maglor, took his spit-slick fingers out of Maglor’s mouth and then shoved one—just one, to Maglor’s intense relief—up inside him.

It still hurt. He hadn’t had particular occasion to be doing anything back there in recent times, and with every muscle vibrating with tension, he didn’t have much room to spare. The saliva helped, a little. Maglor shut his eyes and tried to relax, tried to pretend that it was a _game_ , that it was in Valinor, that the hand splayed flat across his chest was—was someone else’s.

Gorthaur added the other two fingers quickly, quickly enough that Maglor couldn’t stop the pained cry that fell from his throat, but that there were fingers at all was some kind of a relief. It could have hurt a great deal more. It could have done a great deal more damage. Maglor did not for a minute think Morgoth would have been displeased even if the blood had caused both him and Gorthaur pain or significant injury.

It _was_ rough and painful, and at some point Maglor had begun weeping quietly, but that was distant and didn’t really matter much. Everything seemed very far away but the feeling of those relentless fingers moving in and out, and Maglor relaxed to the rhythm slowly. No point holding to the extraneous right now.

When Gorthaur’s fingers withdraw, the fog in his mind was slow to clear, to Maglor’s distant relief. There was no time for him to tense back up, but his stomach still twisted when he felt Gorthaur’s cock prodding at his entrance. It twisted more, and very strangely, when Gorthaur hurriedly, _furtively_ , slipped a hand between his legs and stroked him several times, rapid and clumsy, before the other hand tightened on his thigh and he let himself float as Gorthaur forced his way inside.

It was awful, but at the same time, it wasn’t as bad as he had expected, and Maglor was willing to take that as a victory. Gorthaur’s breathing had roughened as well, and it was painful, but it wasn’t beyond the threshold of some really terrible sex Maglor had had when he was younger and particularly inexperienced. Maglor shut his eyes and floated some more, listening without much interest to the slap of flesh on flesh. Gorthaur was almost silent as well, beyond his heavy breathing and the occasional sound of grinding teeth.

Maglor didn’t know how long it had been when Gorthaur’s jerky rhythm slowed. 

“Dost thou grow weary, Lieutenant? Shall I take over for thee?”

A muscle twitched in Gorthaur’s jaw. Maglor watched him through blurry, tearful vision. “Am I insufficient for your pleasure, my lord?” Gorthaur’s voice sounded raw, dangerous, and fearful all at once. Maglor almost _felt_ the sound of it, the echoing vibration of emotional distress striking a chord inside him.

“Thou hast not _finished_ with him, Lieutenant. Didst thou not say he had a _use_? I have yet to see it.”

Gorthaur’s eyes flickered closed for an instant, and he tipped his head forward. There was no getting out of this, said his body language, and Maglor agreed. Wearily, he moved back against Gorthaur—not much, since he couldn’t move much within his bonds in any case—but a little. Gorthaur looked up, then reached out and laced their fingers together, hiding them on the far side of Maglor’s body. Maglor didn’t think it was a gesture only intended for him, and he squeezed Gorthaur’s hand. Gorthaur squeezed back, and Maglor turned his face to the side, pretending to cry out in pain.

They held each other, hand tight in hand, as they forced reluctant bodies to move. Maglor focused all his thoughts on getting through the next few minutes, and that meant he somehow had to get Mairon to climax, despite the fact his body was significantly closer to expelling his last meal through his mouth than any other particular emission. Mairon’s anger and guilt and fear twisted with Maglor’s, and Maglor shut his eyes, found a soft little melody, and hummed it quietly underneath his breath, where it would be inaudible to anyone but the Maia, weaving the two of them together, weaving pleasure from pain, friendship from fear, tenderness from trouble. The mechanics of the motions of Maglor’s _hröa_ around Mairon’s _fana_ were enough to take it from there.

Mairon stayed inside him, shuddering, for a snatched half-moment after he had spilled himself, then levered himself upright, face blank, and quickly tucked himself back into his clothes. Maglor lay in his bindings and tried to ignore the hot, sticky feeling inside, the frantic desire to clean himself, to _hide_ himself, somehow, anyhow. He noticed that his body was crying again, which was probably the right reaction.

“My lord?” Mairon’s voice sounded neutral, and he showed none of the mess of feelings sparking inside. “Was that a sufficient demonstration for you?”

There was a heart-stopping pause. Then, “For now, Lieutenant,” said that frosty voice. “Shall I have him removed from thy chambers?”

“No, thank you, my lord,” Mairon replied smoothly. “Surely you would not deny me some time _alone_ with him?”

Maglor, who could still—for some reason—see the banked and blazing fire inside the Maia nevertheless moaned at that, sick and pained. Mairon did not flinch.

“Well, he is thy captive, much good may it do thee,” replied Morgoth. He rose and departed. Mairon cast one look back at Maglor and fled as well. Left alone, bruised, in pain, and exhausted—and still bound to the bed—Maglor shrugged, shut his eyes, and let himself sleep. Easier than the alternative, anyway.

He didn’t think he had slept for very long when he felt Mairon’s presence again. The Maia was undoing the bindings rapidly. “Here,” he said, thrusting a long, soft robe into Maglor’s hands. “There’s a bucket of hot water on the other side of the bed. I thought—you might want—I—I need to clean myself but you must need it more—I—”

“Thank you,” Maglor said faintly. The burning sensation of Mairon was _still present_ , like an itch beneath his skin. Something about it felt slightly off, but Maglor was too tired and sore and dirty to bother dealing with it right now.

“I’ll leave you.” _I’m sorry_ , he didn’t say and didn’t think, precisely, but it throbbed beneath Maglor’s chest as well, like an ache. Maglor nodded shakily, drawing the robe around his shoulders and reveling in being _covered_. Mairon gave him a jerky nod and withdrew again, and Maglor scooted across the bed and found that, yes, there was a _large_ bucket—large enough for an Elf, as long as that Elf was not Maedhros, and soap, and a rough sponge. The water in the bucket was steaming hot.

Maglor took the robe right back off again at the sight, dropping it on the bed, and then promptly lowered himself into the water. It was heavenly, far too hot for comfort, which was exactly what he wanted right now. He soaped himself down as thoroughly as he knew how, from head to toe. His hair was matted with sweat from the battle earlier, and his thighs were sticky with Mairon’s seed. He scrubbed at them hard, but the feeling of it did not fade immediately. The water helped though. It helped immensely.

What kind of person would do that? Maglor wondered, as he scrubbed at his thighs again. Even knowing that Mairon had not wanted to rape a prisoner—which, really, just made you “not Morgoth” on the moral scale, which was not exactly something to brag about—the fact that he had taken the time to bring Maglor hot water, soap, and a sponge— _himself_ —well. It was, Maglor supposed, the decent thing to do, but he hadn’t really expected decency in Angband. One didn’t, really.

By the time the water cooled, Maglor was feeling—not like himself, but less like a _thing_ , at least. He got himself out of the tub and dried himself off. Checking himself over as carefully as he could, he found he was bruised in a few places and sore, but there didn’t seem to be any major injury. So success on being relatively physically uninjured. And Nelyo was still safe. 

With a deep sigh, he pulled the robe on and curled up on the bed. He thought it would be better to get a little more sleep now, because he was still fuzzy and exhausted. It wasn’t likely he’d be able to plan an escape when he was this dopey. But for the first time, he felt the dawning of a little hope.

Maybe he wasn’t going to die here, after all.

~

Mairon dug his nails into his thighs. He felt disgusting, and three showers had done nothing to change that. He could still feel the Elf squirming against him. He could still feel himself forcing his way inside an unwilling subject. He had known that Melkor had returned changed—how could he not? But to be so changed as to force Mairon to _this_ —

He couldn’t even hide in his own damn chambers, because the _Elf_ was there, and apparently it was the only place he’d likely be even halfway safe from Melkor. Taking prisoners was one thing. Killing Elves in battle was one thing. But—but _this_.

“Mairon, is that you? What are you doing in here?”

Damn, damn, damn. Gothmog was back early. Hastily, Mairon pulled on his tunic. He wasn’t going to put on the vest and leggings ever again. He was going to burn them. At least the tunic protected his modesty. “I was just going,” he mumbled, trying to push his way past the Balrog looming in the doorway of his own bathroom.

“Mairon, what—”

Gothmog’s large, gentle hand on his shoulder sent a shock of horror through him. “Don’t _touch_ me!” Mairon snarled, flinging himself backward so hard he half-fell against the wall.

The Balrog stepped backwards, and Mairon laughed at the stupid look on his face, but the laugh kept going, climbing higher and higher, and he couldn’t _stop_ —he pressed a hand to his mouth, the way he’d tried to keep the Elf silent earlier—

“What happened?” Gothmog asked quietly. “Are you injured?”

Mairon shook his head. “I raped the Fëanorion,” he spat after a moment, his shoulders still heaving, his speech disrupted by soft little noises. 

Gothmog’s fiery eyes shone with bewilderment. “What?”

“M-Melkor said, if I did not take him—he would—he would give both of us to Balhalph.”

“ _WHAT_!” Gothmog roared, and his anger sent Mairon’s head spinning. He dug his nails into his thigh. He was trembling. His useless _fana_ refused to obey him and still itself. “Our lord forced you to—”

“I am sworn to obey him,” Mairon tried. The words sounded meaningless. “But I did not want to, and he would not listen, and Mag—the Elf—I—he had to _help me_. He had to help me _rape him_.” He was laughing again. Stupid. Stupid, stupid.

_It **is** funny, if you have a very dark sense of humor and weren’t involved. I don’t think that’s really laughter, though._

“Who _said_ that?” There wasn’t anyone else in the room.

“Hush. Hush.” Gothmog was pacing back and forth. He reached out but stopped himself from touching Mairon. He looked up slowly. “You need to leave. You cannot stay here. If our lord has gone so mad—”

“Leave?” Mairon echoed. “No. I am sworn to him for all eternity. I am—I am _bound_ to him.” Though he had not _felt_ that bond in too long. He felt a flash of curiosity where the bond—ought to be? But it was not Melkor. 

“Mairon, he violated you.”

“No, _I_ —”

_He violated both of us, you know_. That time he heard it _clearly_ , vague and dream-like and sleepy as it was, and _this time_ —he hadn’t recognized the sound because he had only heard that voice raised in song above the battlefield or cracking with defiance and fear, but—

“Fuck,” Mairon said wildly. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , no, this isn’t— _fuck_.”

He sank back against the wall, mind reeling.

~

Maglor surfaced from odd, almost companionable dreams to find a pair of intent black eyes staring down into his. He yelped and jerked away, and his elbow went off the edge of the bed. He felt himself start to fall, but before he could complete the arc, a small dark hand caught in his collar, jerking him back upright. “Master!” called the small woman who had apparently been perched directly over him, watching him sleep, “he’s awake!”

“Thank you, Thuri.” And there was Gorthaur—Mairon, rather, as he thought of himself. He wore a long-sleeved dark tunic, and his shining red hair was pulled back and bound with a black ribbon. “Well. Maglor Fëanorion. I trust you are feeling…as well as can be expected?”

Maglor had dreamed about him. He had felt fire and fear and anger, and he could still feel them now, he realized. _Mairon…?_

_Yes, Kanafinwë Makalaurë. I am afraid that we are…_ Mairon sighed. He did not choose the final word, but Maglor heard it anyway, in his own voice. _Bonded._ _I cannot believe that even Melkor foresaw this._

_Bonded_. That should not be possible. Maglor’s chest twisted against the rising terror. He had slept with many Elves in Valinor and there had never been the slightest hint of a bond. Why should there be? It required intent on both sides, or at least so he had thought. This—this was the exact opposite, lack of desire or intent on _either_ side.

“How…?” he croaked.

“Believe me, I do not know either,” Mairon snarled. He was trembling again, but at least he seemed less terrifying than the first time Maglor had seen him. Not being naked and tied down probably helped. “In any case, it does not matter. What matters is that we must depart as soon as possible.”

Maglor’s heart leapt. “You will help me escape?”

“We will both be leaving,” Mairon told him grimly. “If Melkor discovers the bond between us, I am certain he will make good on his threat.” He clearly did not want to say anything further, but Maglor found that he could peer down the bond and into Mairon’s mind. He did so and immediately wished he hadn’t. “There was a reason I tried to keep that from you,” Mairon snarled. “But then what can you expect from an Elf, I suppose.”

“At least I was able to direct you through my own rape,” Maglor retorted thinly. If Mairon had failed, would that _image_ in his head have become the reality? Mairon’s face went blank, and he looked away.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment. “It is true, you have a greater variety of physical experience than I do, and it—was—well done.” The words were jerked out of him.

“How nice of you to admit that an _Elf_ is capable of anything.”

“Ooooh,” said the voice of the small woman by the bed. “You know, Mairon, he’s pretty cute, for an Elf.” Both Mairon and Maglor turned to glare at her. She grinned, revealing sharp, white teeth like needles. _Vampire_ , Maglor realized, and he froze with terror. “You should keep him,” the vampire said, and Maglor tried not to show the sudden dizzy fear. He had gotten too comfortable; he had let down his guard—his breathing expanded suddenly to fill his ears, panic flaring so quickly in his chest he had no chance to control it—

“ _Káno_ ,” someone said distantly. Red hair, reassuring voice. Makalaurë turned immediately, burrowing into the warmth, and an arm pulled him into a tight, awkward embrace.

“I told you he was cute.”

“Thuri, can you _not_. You scared him half to death.”

“Don’t see why. He stood up to Melkor all right.”

“Yes, well, it’s—minds are strange. Hush, Káno.”

It took too long for Maglor to realize that the arms he was sheltering in smelled of metal and ash, not of Maitimo’s favorite perfume. By the time he really had, he decided somewhat fatalistically that he was comfortable, and if Gorthaur and he were bonded, he might as well take advantage of it. He scooted into the Maia’s lap, curling himself up into a small ball.

“You know I can tell that you are not panicking any longer.” Mairon spoke haltingly, confusedly.

“Am I not being pathetic enough for you?” Maglor asked, lifting sad eyes, and Mairon sputtered.

“Why would you _want_ to be in my _lap_?”

“Because, quite frankly, I am very tired and very frightened and the notion of having someone with a bit of power at my disposal and trying to be protective is very appealing,” Maglor answered. Honesty seemed warranted since Mairon would probably be able to tell what he was thinking anyway, or most of it. And, Maglor admitted, he did like red hair.

It was, perhaps, unfair. Mairon’s memories of the touches they had shared were unpleasant; forcing him to hold Maglor like this—“No. If it will be some kind of recompense, I will do it.”

Maglor would take that. It was past time for him to be able to be selfish. He settled himself more firmly in Mairon’s arms. “So we will be leaving?” he asked, the glimmering of an idea taking root in his brain.

“That’s right.” Mairon sighed heavily, obviously ill-prepared to leave somewhere that had been his home for hundreds of years, to give up on a vigil he had waited on patiently and loyally for so long—but the Maia was practical, like Maglor, and both of them knew that if they were to stay sane and healthy, it would not be within the bounds of these stone walls. “As quickly as possible, or we will never be able to.” He touched Maglor hesitantly, guiltily.

“There is something you can do for me,” Maglor told him. “If you would _truly_ offer recompense.”

Mairon looked at him with startled, red-gold eyes. “Ah,” he whispered, and, seeing the light shining in Maglor’s mind, he traced slim fingers down Maglor’s cheek and chin. “Sly little Elf. But if I can, I will, for I do not think they suit him either.”

~

The Dark Lord sat on his dark throne, contemplating the bright white light of the Silmarils. Angband was mostly silent. Only after a while, a soft knock disturbed the stillness. Morgoth moved slowly to respond, a half-slumbering statue. Indeed, dust lay thick and heavy across the throne room.

That dust was disturbed as Gorthaur entered, his head bowed. Behind him he led the Elf, naked, chain by the throat in a silver collar, his black hair spilling like ink across his paler skin. He was ethereally lovely and moved almost as if in a daze behind Gorthaur.

“My lord.” Gorthaur knelt before the throne. “I offer you Kanafinwë Makalaurë, the second child of Fëanáro, if it please you.”

“I believe thou hast offered this before, Lieutenant. I ask thee again: of what use is he?”

“Allow me to demonstrate, lord?”

Morgoth stared at the shivering Elf. Then he spoke again, his voice faintly amused, “The second creation of Fëanáro? Very well. He will not outshine these.”

The bright white lights of the Silmarils reflected in the Elf’s brown eyes as he looked up. The Lieutenant of Angband dragged him forward roughly and placed a small, silver travel harp in his arms. “Show thy worth, son of Fëanáro,” he said quietly.

Kanafinwë took up the harp and began to play, a soft, slow little melody. At first, there was only the sound of the harp threading through the hollow chamber. Then he began to hum, soft and slow, his body language subtly transforming from the original submissiveness into something slightly more commanding, his voice growing louder as it did so. It stayed sweet, though, beguiling and persuasive, rather than compelling. As he sang, the Dark Lord’s eyelids began to droop and eventually to close.

~

Maglor did not stop singing, but he handed the harp to Mairon as Morgoth’s head nodded forward, and the iron crown slipped down onto his lap. Mairon frowned, stepping forward and drawing his dagger, but Maglor held out his hand. _I’ll do it. They’re my father’s._

_You’re a fool_. But Mairon handed him the dagger, his eyes fixed on Morgoth. Maglor could do this. He kept singing, soft and sad and sweet, as he approached the throne. He imagined himself the daring hero, the valiant one—Finno or Nelyo could do this, even if Káno still felt like a little boy who cried inside more often than not. He pretended that he was a hero, and his hand did not even tremble as he leaned forward over Morgoth’s lap.

The Silmarils were set deeply into the iron crown, and it was difficult to get purchase to lever them out. More difficult, when he had to sing and could not play, but he focused his energy, scraping with the dagger. He tried to move the crown, slowly, carefully, but it was too heavy for him, and Mairon made frantic noises in his head until he stopped and went back to what he had been doing.

His hand started to ache from the awkward-angled repetitive motion, but he continued until he could lever the tip of the dagger beneath the bright gem and then just apply his strength to the task. He interspersed the prying motion with digging, trying to carve out space around the jewel to make this easier. He just had to be patient and keep working.

He wasn’t ready for it when the Silmaril popped out. It parted from the crown entirely, the dagger nearly flying from Maglor’s hand at the sudden lack of resistance. He watched the jewel describe a shallow arc in the air and swore beneath his breath, dropping the dagger and reaching out to catch it before it could fall. His hand closed around it, and he breathed a sigh of relief into the silence.

_Your song_! Mairon’s frantic mental shout came only a moment after Morgoth’s eyes snapped open. With a gasp, Maglor tried to pull back, but Morgoth’s huge hand closed around his, and he heard a set of faint, clear cracking noises before the pain flared, before he cried out. In one motion, Morgoth had crushed nearly all the delicate bones in Maglor’s hand.

The next instant, something yanked at his neck, jerking him off his feet. “Let go!” he heard Mairon shout, and he didn’t know if the Maia was yelling at Morgoth or at him, but Maglor would be damned if he was going to let go of the Silmaril now that he had it in his hand, even though he was screaming at the pain of it.

He landed in Mairon’s arms, and Mairon was running, shouting, something that sounded like nonsense to Maglor’s bewildered ears. All Maglor knew was that his hand was a mass of pain, but he couldn’t open it, couldn’t take the risk of dropping the precious thing that lay within. He shut his eyes and pressed his face into Mairon, hoping that they would escape, that they wouldn’t simply end up captives together, that the scene he had glimpsed in Mairon’s mind would not be his final reality…

“ _Thuringwethil_ ,” Mairon cried, and then they were falling, and then they were flying.

~

There was a commotion in the hallway. Maedhros looked up from the letter he was penning with a sigh. It probably wasn’t worth his attention in the midst of everything he was trying to arrange, but equally he was almost certain to have to give it his attention, so he might as well shorten the whole procedure. He got, stretched, and headed over to open the doorway, where Celegorm nearly fell into him.

“Well, brother?” Maedhros asked wearily.

“There is something approaching from the direction of Angband!” Celegorm gasped. “With a white flag of surrender!”

All right, perhaps it was worthy of his attention. Maedhros ignored the emotions that arose at Celegorm’s words. “We all know how trustworthy a flag of surrender from Angband is,” he said coldly. “When you say ‘approaching’—”

“From the air, like a great bat!”

“Gather as many archers as you can,” Maedhros told him. “You shall lead them. I will follow.” He hated not to be at the head, but they could not afford to lose him, and Celegorm was the better archer, in any case.

His brothers might have their flaws, but they and the rest of their folk were swift to respond to a threat. Within moments, they had a hastily-assembled company on the shores of the lake, half-hidden in the trees. Maedhros followed Celegorm’s pointing finger to the black thing in the sky, winging in great high circles just out of arrow’s reach. “If they come closer, fire on them,” Maedhros told him. This was no time for half-measures. The creature was obviously one of those dark beings from Angband, though he could not understand why there was only one and why it had not yet attacked. Surely they _knew_ that a white flag would not be believed? Not after—

Maedhros ground down against the pain and guilt, then paused, pricking up his ears. This time, on the circling approach of the beast, he heard something, a voice singing, high and breathy and horribly, horribly familiar. So thin. So weak. Maedhros’s heart twisted in his chest.

“Hold!” he told Celegorm. “Hold—”

“Is that Káno’s voice?” Celegorm demanded. “Then that is why they’re using the white flag. What do you think they intend?” _Will we watch as they slaughter him before us?_ Maedhros knew he was thinking, if not speaking it.

“I don’t know,” he said tightly. “Let them approach, but not too near.”

Celegorm said something hurriedly to one of the archers, and the call went around and up. This time, the winged creature landed with a bump on the shore of the lake and immediately became a small woman with curly dark hair. As the bulk of her other form vanished, a figure appeared, one of those who had struck fear into the hearts of many of the Elves on their last battle. Gorthaur wore no armor now, but his red-gold hair streamed in the wind, and in his arms was curled the slight form of Maedhros’s little brother, ink-black hair tumbling across the cloak that had been wrapped around his body. Káno was still singing, but his voice was reedy and soft and thin.

Maedhros checked Celegorm and then himself, stopping either of them from running forward. “Why do you come here?” he called out from the cover of the trees. “Know that if you make one misstep my archers will fell you where you stand!”

The red head dipped down, and Káno’s singing ceased. Maedhros ground his teeth. Then Gorthaur set Maglor’s feet on the ground. Maglor stood shakily, then shook his head, and Gorthaur put an arm beneath him. “I cannot walk by myself, Nelyo,” Maglor called out wearily. “I—I need a healer, I—”

“He has lost blood,” Gorthaur called out tightly. “I come here to return your brother to you, Maedhros Fëanorion, and I know why you do not trust me, but you must let the three of us approach if you want to give him the care that he needs.”

“It’s a trick, right?” hissed Celegorm at Maedhros’s elbow, and Maedhros was struck with horrible indecision. He could not risk himself. The wise thing to do would be to treat this as a trick, as Celegorm said, but—the Ambarussar’s faces when they realized their father had nearly let one of them die on the ships. No. “ _Káno_ ,” Maedhros breathed. “Let them approach,” he said tightly. “Stay on your guard, but let them approach.”

He hoped he had not doomed them all, but after one incredulous look, Celegorm did as he said. The trio approached quickly and nervously. Káno’s legs obviously did not support him well, and as he reached the circle of the Elves, hands reached out to take him and help him forward. “Nelyo?” he said as he was borne away from Morgoth’s two servants.

“Káno— _Káno_ —you _fool_ —” Maedhros rushed forward to meet him. “How—”

Maglor went to his knees in front of Maedhros. “I could not retrieve them all, brother, I am sorry,” he breathed, and he let the cloak fall open. White light spilled forth from inside, and Maedhros gaped as the white gem fell from Maglor’s fingers onto the sand. 

Beneath the cloak, Maglor was naked and there was a silver collar about his neck. There were dark stains on his chest and stomach, and Maedhros leapt forward to catch him as he crumpled. He fell into his older brother’s arms, and Maedhros realized the blood was from the mangled hand in which he had held the Silmaril, that he now supported with the other hand. “I need a healer!” Maedhros called out. Then, turning back to Káno, “Thou hast done better than I could have ever dreamed, little brother.”

Káno smiled faintly. “Have I? Oh, Nelyo…” His eyes fluttered closed.

“I need a _healer_!” Maedhros called again.

~

Makalaurë woke slowly. His arm ached distantly, but he was warm and comfortable. He yawned and stretched. “Careful,” said Nelyo’s sweet, deep voice, and Makalaurë shivered with pleasure, because he’d thought he would never hear his brother again.

“I feel fine,” he said sleepily.

“Well, you are not fine,” Maitimo snapped. “Your hand was crushed.” He paused, and Makalaurë blinked his eyes slowly, letting the world swim into focus. 

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he objected.

“That is because you have been given many, many herbs for the pain,” Nelyo said strictly. “It will be some time before you are recovered.”

That did explain why he felt as if he were floating. “It’s so good to see you,” Makalaurë said. “How are Mairon and Thuri?”

“Who?”

“Oh…Gorthaur and Thuringwethil. The vampire. They helped me escape.”

“Did they.” Nelyo sounded bemused and a little unconvinced.

“Yes.” Makalaurë nodded emphatically. “Also, I am afraid Mairon—Gorthaur—and I are, um…” He did not think Nelyo was going to be pleased about this. He sighed. “We are soul-bonded.”

There was a long, tight, unpleasant silence. “What did he do to you?” Maitimo asked softly. “Did he…”

“Nothing that he wanted to do.” Makalaurë closed his eyes. “He did the best he could not to harm me. I don’t believe this could have happened if we had not both needed it in some way. He is…” he sighed. “He fought against us. He fought against the Valar. But as a foe, not as a monster.”

“He has been treated well enough as a prisoner. The vampire, too.”

“Thank you, Nelyo.” Makalaurë patted his hand. “Perhaps I should sleep a little longer, now.”

“Perhaps you should. Would you like a lullaby, little brother?”

“Mmm. You are a terrible singer.” He laughed, cracking his eyes to see the indignant expression on Maitimo’s face. “Yes, I would like a lullaby. How kind of you, Nelyo.”

“Brat.” Maitimo’s large hand ruffled his hair. But after a moment he began to sing, and Makalaurë let himself float away again.

~

When he woke next, he was a little clearer. There was a redhead sitting by the bed again, but he realized after a moment that it wasn’t Nelyo.

“How are you feeling?” Mairon asked warily.

“Sore,” Maglor groaned. He looked down at his hands, lying on the blanket, and winced, because one was a hand and the other was a suspiciously and unpleasantly short stump of bandages. “What happened?” he asked, and Mairon followed his gaze.

“From what I understand you were not supposed to wake up yet,” he said thinly. “But the healers did not think they could save it, and there was a risk of infection.”

No wonder Nelyo had stopped himself from talking about it. “It’s going to be difficult to learn to play a harp one-handed,” Maglor said, with an attempt at lightness.

“I’ll make you a prosthetic,” Mairon said, sounding angry and lost again. “I have some skill in the forge.”

“A prosthetic that can play the harp?”

“ _Watch me_.” Then he bowed his head. “No—I should not promise such things. Your brother has kindly said I may leave if I so desire, and perhaps that would be best. The bond may fade with distance.”

Maglor would not force him to stay, of course, and it was true that the bond that had been made between them had been born of an ugly thing. Mairon was stubborn, angry, starchy, and would probably be miserable to be around for some time yet. But Maglor had already found more in Angband’s lieutenant than he would ever have expected. He swallowed, then spoke. “Stay? For a little while. Just to see how things go.” There was a sort of _twang_ in the bond—surprise, fear, just a slight touch of hope. “There would not need to be anything…” Maglor trailed off. “Just to see if we could be friends. And I would like to see this prosthetic.”

Mairon’s fire-gold eyes looked back and softened. “All right, Káno. Just for thee.” He patted Maglor’s remaining hand gently. “Thou shouldst not be awake, though. Go back to sleep.” Before he could withdraw, Maglor turned his hand over to capture Mairon’s, gave him his best innocent smile, and settled back into the pillows to do just that.


End file.
